


More Than the Flames of Me

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-04
Updated: 2008-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:03:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel has a purpose here, a mission. But there are things Castiel wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than the Flames of Me

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Title from Walt Whitman. Thank you to the wonderful [](http://smilla02.livejournal.com/profile)[**smilla02**](http://smilla02.livejournal.com/) for the beta-read and encouragement.

  
Castiel _wants_.

This isn't a completely foreign concept to him. He has wanted in the abstract—wanted to fulfill a duty, wanted a certain end result. He still feels those, but now layered over that, he wants in startling, sharp ways. He wants in the specific.

He wants the taste of bittersweet hot chocolate when the air is cold. He wants the scent of pork frying. He wants to hear human music.

When Castiel looks at Dean, he wants. Dean in the specific, Dean in the abstract. It isn't the abstract that brings this flood of warmth, though. That's from things like the way Dean smiles now before he kisses him, the crinkles that form in the corner of his eyes. The lines are like the more joyful moments of Dean's life, few enough that they could be caught and stored.

The times they've been together so far, it's been hurried, half-clothed. But Castiel wants something else he can't quite find the name for, and he's not sure Dean will accept it from him.

He believes Dean wants too, feels it in the way Dean's mouth fits with his own, reflecting heat. The way Dean's hands, with their battered knuckles, trace over Castiel's exposed skin. There are stories in the rise of the veins on the strong fingers, the nicks and cuts, the new small scars on his body. The damage the hellhounds did to Dean is not like these small wounds that are the signatures of Dean's work, what he does to seek out and destroy dark things.

Castiel wonders if his wish to wipe these new scars away would be taking something he shouldn't take. It isn't possible now anyway, the energy required too great. He would have to abandon his human form, let this body die, and the sight of his true shape would be more than Dean's sight could endure. He has to acknowledge that Dean isn't one who can safely hear or look upon angels.

Even though he still hopes.

Castiel's coat is folded neatly over a chair in the small motel room. Dean's brother is driving back towards them, hours away. He had gone to see a man about a dusty book, Dean had said.

"You should remove all your clothes," Castiel says.

Dean pulls back, eyebrows arching. "Well, aren't you the randy angel?" He grins, but doesn't comply. Instead, Dean slides his hand down Castiel's stomach. He feels it as if there isn't a layer shirt cloth between his skin and Dean's.

What Dean is doing, as he dips his hands under the waistband of Castiel's pants, is distracting, but Castiel by nature is not designed to let go of a purpose. He thinks over the problem while he grows hard, finds his body leaning into Dean's touch. That word, _want_ , thrums steadily through him with each heartbeat.

"I would like you to remove your clothing," Castiel tries again, pulls in a deep breath to keep from the moment of release just yet, but Dean's fingers are relentless. He gently pushes them away. "Please."

Angels should not be begging things of humans.

"Since you asked nicely." Dean smirks and immediately pulls his black long-sleeved t-shirt up over his head. He's out of his jeans with a few shakes of his muscular legs.

Among other emotions, Castiel feels one that he suspects is more potent because he knows Dean as well as he does by now: amusement. Dean seems glad enough to be unclothed, now that Castiel has figured out how to make the request. He seems to understand his own body, seems to fit it well, in ways many humans don't. Yet Dean also seems to be perpetually on edge. That being in this well-fitting skin, Dean isn't quite sure he should be there. Dean, who does not believe he deserved to be saved.

Dean pulls off his briefs, tosses them into the corner to land next to his jeans, and then sits down on the bed. His palms rest on the bedspread, which is an unholy mix of green and purple. Castiel wonders again at how humanity produces so much beauty and so much that is painful to the eyes--for instance, Dean sitting naked on that ugly bed covering.

He looks suddenly exposed, awkward, and vulnerable. Castiel finds himself staring at the hand-print scar he left on Dean's shoulder, then walks over to Dean, takes his face between his hands, traces his fingers over the stubble of his jaw. He leans down, kisses Dean, as Dean's tongue slides over his.

Dean lifts his hands from the bedspread to grip Castiel's lower arms. He has lost track of his tie; Castiel isn't sure when he removed it or where it landed. That is part of what is frightening about Dean.

"This should go too, y'know," Dean murmurs, pulling at Castiel's shirt, loosening buttons. "Fair's fair."

The shirt is unbuttoned quickly, Dean pulling it down off his shoulders. The air of the motel room brushes his skin, cool but not chilly. Dean's hands travel down to unzip Castiel's slacks, but Castiel catches Dean's wrists in his fingers, the bump of the leather bracelet Dean wears pressing at the pad of his thumb.

"No, not yet," he says, and Dean's head draws back, peering at Castiel, a startled moment of hesitancy before his mouth curves up at the corners. It is a dare. As if Dean questions he has the—the word he's heard for it is _rocks_.

A new want, added to the others, is to watch that smugness dissolve.

His fingers close around Dean's penis. It's hard, curving upward. Castiel thumbs the tip where liquid glistens, and Dean's hips twitch as he sucks in a breath. Castiel begins to stroke, slow and firm, enjoys the way Dean's head goes back, the arch of his neck. Dean smells of plain soap, shampoo, the cleansing scent of deodorant, the headier smell of aftershave and what his body produces in his lust.

He ducks to lick Dean's Adam's apple—an apt and beautiful name for it—feeling it rise convulsively beneath his tongue. It leads him to a thought for his father. Castiel is afraid that his eye will fall, eventually, on the things he does with Dean. Or that Uriel will find out and convey a message. He wonders what Sam would think as well.

The low, pleased hum in Dean's throat vibrates against Castiel's lips and tongue. He strokes harder, moves his other hand to flick his fingers behind Dean's testicles, and the hum turns into sharply inhaled breaths. Dean's hands are on Castiel's hips, thumbs rubbing against the bare skin above the waistband of his slacks, digging into the flesh. The touch feels is akin to fire.

Castiel stills his hands, then withdraws them.

"Hey!" Dean protests. "What the fuck. Look, guy, if you're going to start something you'd better--"

But Castiel's mouth covers Dean's, drowning out the words. He takes Dean's shoulders, careful to grip above the scar, and pushes Dean onto his back.

"Okay," Dean says, as Castiel kisses Dean's chest. "You seem to have, um, a plan here."

When Castiel glances up at his face, Dean's chin is lowered, watching him and his eyes have gone more green than hazel. Castiel's tongue flicks over Dean's left nipple and Dean shuts his eyes. "Shit," he whispers.

Knowing how to do these things, in part that's from Dean, but his human body seems to know by instinct. It is strange, since the soul that once inhabited it has moved on.

He continues his journey down Dean's body, tasting his skin, marking the lines of muscles. Dean's abdomen twitches beneath his touch.

When he gets down far enough, his cheek against the inside of Dean's thigh, he runs his tongue along the underside of his penis, makes Dean buck. His own groin is aching and hard, so he stops for a moment to unzip himself, kick himself free of his slacks and underwear. He notes how abandoned the action seems before Dean's fingers are digging into his hair, insistent, and so he returns to his work. He takes Dean into his mouth, tastes the salt tang. His senses are filled with the scent and touch and feel of Dean, of humanity, imperfect and beautiful, put together just so.

He keeps his gaze cast upward, watching Dean. Watches the way he bites his lower lip, his fingers clenching around the ugly bedspread, the way his head arches back again, how his freckles stand out more sharply when he flushes. The words are broken, under his breath, _yeah, oh fuck, yes_.

He hasn't yet said Castiel's name in this context. Castiel feels a twinge, as if a part of him is incomplete.

When he stops this time, Dean lets out a low curse. "You bastard. You really are a dick."

Castiel laughs, the sensation unfamiliar, then lowers the length of his body over Dean's. As he rubs down, Dean groans.

"I want to be inside you," Castiel says, placing a kiss on the underside of Dean's chin. The pendant hanging around Dean's neck digs into Castiel's chest. It's a meaningless artifact, fascinating but holding no intrinsic power, except what Dean gives it.

"Duffel bag…condom…lube…" Dean mutters, and gasps as Castiel slides off him.

He has trouble getting the cap off the tube. Dean makes an impatient noise, tongue clicking against his teeth, sits up. He grabs it from him. "You do like this, got it? Jesus H. Fuckin' Christ, who knew angels were such a tease." Dean goes still, glances at him. "Um. Sorry, no offense."

It seems better to ignore it; he was merely cursing, not invoking Christ in a way intended to be disrespectful. He's gotten used to the oddities of Dean's vernacular. It's the least of his infractions.

He almost ejaculates as Dean slides the condom onto him. He suspects Dean is doing it this slowly on purpose, is trying to get Castiel's hips to jerk forward like that, for his fingers to involuntarily press down on the flesh of Dean's thigh. The heat and pressure is exquisite almost to pain. Dean exhales a low, quiet laugh.

When Dean pulls his hands away, Castiel pushes Dean's knees up, then turns his attention to figuring out the mysteries of the tube Dean handed to him. The substance is cold and slippery over his fingers. It doesn't seem quite natural, but he rubs it around and into Dean's hole when Dean tells him to, slides a finger in, to see what that will do, and Dean's body jerks. Castiel strokes him there, wonders at how his smallest motion brings out a magnified answer from Dean, a movement, a gutteral sound. He reaches up to lay the palm of his other hand over the tattoo on Dean's chest, feels Dean's heart beating fast.

What he wants is to watch Dean's face as he lets go. What he wants is to witness Dean become undone, unraveled by joy. What he wants is for Dean to _let_ him be the cause of it.

Castiel withdraws his fingers, then pushes inside, Dean's penis against his stomach. Dean makes a quiet sound, a whimper muffled with his mouth pressed into a tight line. Castiel reaches up and traces his finger over Dean's mouth until it opens and the line of his jaw unclenches. Then he lowers his hand, closes his fist around Dean's penis, begins to stroke. Dean's breaths turn short and quick.

Castiel has learned about deprivation, control, and restraint since he put on a human form, but as he thrusts in, it is a close thing, with the feel of Dean tight around him. He hears a whimper, realizes it's his own.

Dean ejaculates first with an unintelligible shout, spurting hot onto Castiel's stomach, his body arching. His fingers press hard into the skin on Castiel's back. Dean's face transforms, all guilt and loss and barriers pushed aside. Then his face relaxes and his eyes regain their focus. He looks at Castiel, expectant, as if he wants to watch as Castiel had wanted to watch Dean, and it's too much. This must be how it feels to hurtle like a comet towards earth.

When Castiel comes with a rush of heat, his wings straining to emerge from his back, he shouts out a single syllable before he can catch himself. When he comes, he shouts Dean's name.

He slumps down over Dean's body, both of them tangled and limp. Dean's heartbeat starts to slow against Castiel's ear. He listens to it, wonders what he would do to keep it beating.

"Hey," Dean says, his voice scratchy. "You have to remove that." He nods down towards Castiel's groin, where the condom is still in place. "Tie it off and throw it away. Okay?"

Castiel's fingers are clumsy tying the knot. He finds the feel of the condom to be as odd as the lubricant. The room is colder away from Dean's body. When he lies back down, the top of his head tucked beneath Dean's chin, Dean's arms tighten around him. Castiel feels an elusive ache in the hollows of himself.

After a moment, a feather-light brush of lips moves against his forehead.

He has a purpose here, a mission. Dean must be ready. These things are duty, they are what Castiel will do, what Dean will have to do, unavoidable.

This, though, right now, is what Castiel wants.

~end  



End file.
